r before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance to her, and
she enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these occasions; but
it annoyed her that she could no longer play the hostess at a merry
supper-table.

'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her first
words when she entered.

'Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient this
evening.'

She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to pursue
the subject.

Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which had made
him a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon seemed supremely
blessed. That a struggling man of letters should have been able to
marry, and such a wife, was miraculous in Biffen's eyes. A woman's love
was to him the unattainable ideal; already thirty-five years old, he had
no prospect of ever being rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner;
marriage was wildly out of the question. Sitting here, he found it very
difficult not to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency. Seldom in his
life had he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clear
voice was always more delightful to him than any music.

Amy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way of
such things as she knew interested him. Biffen's deferential attitude
as he listened and replied was in strong contrast with the careless
ease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would never smoke in Amy's
presence, but Jasper puffed jovial clouds even whilst she was conversing
with him.

'Whelpdale came to see me last night,' remarked Milvain, presently.
'His novel is refused on all hands. He talks of earning a living as a
commission agent for some sewing-machine people.'

'I can't understand how his book should be positively refused,' said
Reardon. 'The last wasn't altogether a failure.'

'Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series of
conversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a novel
at all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer wondered that he
couldn't sell it.'

'Oh, but it has considerable merit,' put in Biffen. 'The talk is
remarkably true.'

'But what's the good of talk that leads to nothing?' protested Jasper.

'It's a bit of real life.'

'Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so long
as people are willing to read you. Whelpdale's a clever fellow, but he
can't hit a practical line.'

'Like some other